


retribution

by sparxwrites



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Boys in Chains, Haircuts, Humiliation, Straight Razors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 19:30:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8727412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: It’s the first thing the Clasp do to him, when they get their hands on him.
Well, not the first- the first is that they strip him, naked as the day he was born, and chain him up. Arms behind his back, a heavy collar around his neck, his ankles bound with just enough slack for him to hobble along when they drag him deeper into their warren of underground tunnels. They push him to his knees, and then to his hands and knees, and then put a foot on the back of his neck and press until his cheek’s against foul, slimy stone and they’re chaining his collar to a loop embedded in the floor.
The second thing they do, though, is bring the razor in.





	

It’s the first thing the Clasp do to him, when they get their hands on him.

Well, not the first- the first is that they strip him, naked as the day he was born, and chain him up. Arms behind his back, a heavy collar around his neck, his ankles bound with just enough slack for him to hobble along when they drag him deeper into their warren of underground tunnels. They push him to his knees, and then to his hands and knees, and then put a foot on the back of his neck and _press_ until his cheek’s against foul, slimy stone and they’re chaining his collar to a loop embedded in the floor.

When the foot moves, he tries to sit up, tries to pull away from the undignified position they’ve forced him into- and promptly chokes himself against the unyielding iron of his collar. Voices, from somewhere outside his line of vision, laugh at his shocked grunt of pain.

The second thing they do, though, is bring the razor in.

“Well,” says someone, voice muffled by cloth and echoing weirdly off the stone walls of the cell. He can’t tell who they are, what they are, _where_ they are – but he feels it when they throw a bucket of water over him, icy cold, and grab a handful of his sopping-wet hair. “Not going to need this, any more, are you?”

He _definitely_ feels it when they yank on it for emphasis, choking him on the collar, and their laugh makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He grits his teeth, closes his eyes, and refuses to make a noise.

“Leave a bit, yeah?” says someone else, from further away – out in the corridor, maybe. He doesn’t know, doesn’t care. “The customers, they like something to hold. Something to tug, y’know?”

He knows they’ve brought the razor in when they press it against his temple, a sharp blade against thin skin, and he _freezes_. No. _No_. But the hand in his hair yanks again, chokes him again, and that _laugh_ makes his very bones itch with the awful _hollowness_ of it all. “Fuck the customers,” says the voice, and he squeezes his eyes shut tighter against the tears that threaten to bead in the corners of them. “Let me have my _fun_.”

They’re gentle with it, at least. This isn’t about hurting him – not with the blade, at least. They’re careful to avoid nicking him with it, wicked-sharp though it is. The hands that wield it must be skilled, he thinks, for such a dangerous item to cause so little damage.

His hair still comes off, though. It’s bloodless, and far from painless, and it falls off in sheets under the careful application of a blade by someone with clever fingers, and it cuts deeper than any knife wound he’s ever had.

He remembers his mother’s hands in his hair, unbidden. She’d sing whilst she braided it, intricate patterns of hair-weaving that he’d have undone within minutes, but that she took the time to do nonetheless. He remembers his twin’s hands in it, too, though she’d never braided it – stroking, tugging, petting. He remembers Gilmore, after one drink too many, carding fingers through it and murmuring _the finest silk I’ve ever handled_ in his rich, deep voice.

He remembers his father’s insistence, when he’d arrived in Syngorn, that they trim the split ends off it, a little, and his own sullen, muttered, _fuck you_.

The chunks of it slide over his shoulders as they’re freed, slithering to the stone below, patches of cold creeping across his scalp as he’s shorn like some common beast. Some of them catch on his damp shoulders, dark strands dragged into curls across the dusty brown of his skin. By the time they’re done, though, there’s nothing but thin, patchy fuzz on his scalp – nothing but stubble, and cold.

(They throw another bucket of water over him, before they leave, and he’s almost grateful. This way, at least, they can’t see the tears.)

**Author's Note:**

> a little something from an au the hdmof discord came up with, wherein the clasp take a slightly more… personal and active approach towards punishing vax for all the shit he pulled with them. also because i really like… idk, “noncon hair cutting”? as a trope.
> 
> come find me @ sparxwrites for more fic.


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